


garden flowers

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Chance Meetings, Developing Friendships, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “—excuse me, mademoiselle, but you are crying,” says a sad rough voice, and Cosette opens her eyes.Cosette meets a girl just outside the walls of her garden.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	garden flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the people of Saint-Merry discord server for their feedback!
> 
> For Cosette Week! Please heed the tags.

Cosette has grown tired of Marius.

It wasn’t his fault. She enjoyed their past few weeks together, sneaking around in the garden late at night, and he was always very complimentary of her. He practically worshipped the ground she walked on, the hem of her skirt, every strand of her hair. After everything that had happened, it felt good to be admired. But they never spoke of anything beyond the walls of the garden, and there was something dark, just beneath his eyes, running as an undertone through his words whenever Cosette pressed the issue.

“Someday,” she said. “Someday, we shall walk in the Luxembourg again, but you shall give me your arm, and we shall promenade. With you by my side, I can go many places.”

Marius shuddered.

“I have always wanted to dine in a restaurant, and you will introduce me to your friends, of course. I have always wanted to meet this M. Courfeyrac of yours. I am sure he has many embarrassing stories of you.”

Marius remained pale and frowning. Cosette chattered on.

“We will have picnics in the field—my old friends are always writing to me about them, and you will listen to me, for I know a little something about the creatures that live there—”

And throughout all that, Marius was silent, and when Cosette asked his opinion, he shook his head and said, in a horrible twisted voice, that she might change her mind yet.

Cosette plans to send him away tonight. If he refuses to hear her out, she also has a note, and sealed it fast with wax. If he refuses, she will beg and plead, and make preparations to kneel on the grass. He would not want her to get her dress damp, and would pull her up somewhat violently, and take the letter if only to stop her from making a fool of herself.

She nods to herself. It is the right thing to do, and she would be free again, of the annoying blots on her conscience, of the lies, and of the badly-dressed young man who speaks just a little too forcefully and has too-expressive eyes.

She goes early to the garden, nervous excitement making her hands dance over her skirts. Her dress is black again, with dense white details. She thinks of her piano keys, how she can coax music out of them even if the sound is not perfect.

The meeting with Marius goes badly. He nearly shouts, begs her to reconsider, and looks altogether wretched. She remains as firm as she knows how to be, crosses her arms and turns to stone even as he kneels at her feet. As he rises and bids her a wounded goodbye, her heart soars. She averts her eyes as he leaves the garden, but remains seated on their, no, _her_ stone bench.

She braces for the crushing wave of despair and heartbreak that her friends spoke about, but it doesn’t come. What settles in its place is the familiar loneliness of old, like a puzzle piece being returned to its proper position.

A shuffle from beyond the gate interrupts her thoughts, and she stands up, her heart beating fast. Her body screams at her to flee, to turn tail and run back into the stuffy house, where she will be safe as long as she locks the door, to curl up in a ball and duck under the bench and hope the kicks are not too hard, to scream wildly for help and know no one will come.

She does none of those things. She approaches, careful to hide behind the small patch of trees, and peers out beyond the fence.

An emaciated girl leans on one of the stone pillars outside the fence, with limp hair and rags hanging loose about her. Her eyes seem too large for her face, and the bones of her cheeks jut out.

Cosette struggles to breathe. For a moment, the world around her fades, and she’s a little child again, shivering in the dead of winter with barely a scrap to huddle under, in the filthy, smoky inn, under the table, scourged and beaten and screamed at until she thought her ears would bleed, the endless hunger in her belly. She mashes her hand over her mouth, holding back a scream. If she makes a noise, they will beat her again, and again, and again—

“—excuse me, mademoiselle, but you are crying,” says a sad rough voice, and Cosette opens her eyes.

The girl—wretched and horrible sight of a girl—creeps closer to her, glancing her up and down. She steps away, quickly, and nearly stumbles on a stone. The girl flinches and pulls her arms and legs in close to her body.

Cosette finally finds her voice. “Who are you?”

The girl just shrugs. “Why were you crying?”

 _Because I still remember_ , Cosette longs to say. She doesn’t say anything.

The girl steps even closer, her air suddenly bold. “Monsieur Marius would not like you to cry,” she says, and Cosette tries to ignore the sudden queer feeling in her chest. “You should be happy. Happy, happy, happy!” She laughs mournfully. “I did not bring him here for the two of you to be sad.”

Cosette bites back her first response, that she will have nothing to do with Marius, that he is gone from her life. “He never mentioned you,” she says, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

The girl looks sadly at her through the bars. “He had no reason to.”

 _Marius is a fool for not mentioning you_ , Cosette thinks. “What’s your name?”

“You do not want to know,” the girl says, and she starts singing, her voice rough and tragic.

Cosette tries again. “Won’t you come in awhile, then? Stay?”

The girl stops, her mouth still gaping wide open. Cosette takes the opportunity to continue.

“I will get you food, and clothing. Everyone is asleep, they will not notice, and if they do, I will take the blame.” She opens the gate. Hasn’t she seen Marius do it so many times? “Please, you are shivering.”

The girl looks at her with wide eyes. “And what do you want in return?” she demands.

“Nothing.” The girl squints suspiciously at her face, and she holds out her hands, trying to allay the girl’s fears.

She remembers, dimly now, the unending chill of fear that suffused her childhood. She was never as bold as this girl, who holds herself fiercely and meets her eyes without a flinch.

“I’ll get you some bread,” Cosette says quickly, trying to think of food that will not be missed in the pantry. “Some fruit, a bit of meat.” She is suddenly conscious of her black dress and pelisse, paid for fairly with a hundred francs. “And I will get you a dress.”

Something changes in the girl’s stance, a weariness finally settling on her frame. “I _am_ very cold,” she says, like confessing a secret.

“We will get you warm,” Cosette promises, and her voice is stronger. This, at least, she can do. She left behind a fire in her room, thinking the affair with Marius could not take but an hour. “There is a fireplace inside.” She touches the girl’s wrist.

The girl tries to hide it, but Cosette knows from the inside-out what a flinch is like. She pulls her hand away, and perhaps that is what gives the girl courage, because she barges through the gate and starts walking around like she owns the place. She sits on the bench, swings her thin legs, and smooths her petticoat out. She bends to examine the flowers and grass. “They are up to regulation standards,” she says, nodding approval.

Cosette nods. “Let’s go inside.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” The girl springs up and follows her inside, her eyes following Cosette as she lights the candles. “So this is how you live!” the girl exclaims. “What fun!”

Cosette gets out the loaf of bread and some fruit, chattering inconsequentially. She was wrong about there being meat left over, but there is stew, and she sets it out along with the rest. The girl snatches morsels from here and there, but she does not sit down to eat. Cosette thinks of the birds that peck at seeds in the market, afraid to take too much in case they are shooed away.

After eating, the girl seems less dazed, and she walks around the room with attempted ease. She picks up a bundle of wildflowers in a vase, ever so carefully. Her chilblained fingers pull out the worst of the bunch, missing a few petals and already drooping. “I want this one.”

“Oh, yes, please choose any flower you like,” Cosette says, bewildered. “I have daisies, asters—"

“—I like this one fine.” The girl fixes it in her hair, braiding it in with jerky movements, humming all the while. Her eyes keep darting to Cosette’s hair, frizzed out near her forehead and looped in intricate braids at the back. The girl loops the pitiful stringy braid with its wilting flower into her hair, and Cosette makes a decision.

“May I?” she says, and the girl nearly jumps into the air.

“I can do it,” she says stiffly. She tries to tie the braid off, but her fingers slip. The braid unwinds. “I _can_. Just give me a moment, will you?” She tries again, and still her fingers slip, and finally, she droops. “Do what you will,” she says, with an air of finality.

“Are you sure?”

The girl stares at her. “Don’t pull my hair out,” she says flatly, and turns away.

Cosette takes out one of her hairpins and gently puts up the girl’s braid properly, arranging the other loose strands into an artistic bun. There’s very little to be done with the hair about the girl’s forehead, not without curling tongs anyway, so Cosette braids it and secures it to the side, and really, it would be very pretty with a little oil to make it shine, and perhaps a few more blossoms.

“I have a looking glass in my room,” Cosette offers quietly, stepping back.

The girl’s face is transformed, and she holds her head very still. “Thank you,” she says, and pauses. “…Mademoiselle.”

“Call me Cosette.”

The girl nods carefully, and Cosette carefully sidesteps the issue of what she should call the girl. Instead, she leads her through the house into the bedroom.

The girl gasps when the door opens and puts her hands over her mouth, her feet twisting on the floorboards. She bounds over to the looking-glass, laughing lightly and touching her hair. Cosette hurries to find the dress, petticoats, chemises, an old corset of hers from when she was thin and gawky. She keeps her head in the closet far longer than is necessary.

When she produces the bundle of clothes, the girl is making faces at the mirror, and her arms and face are scrubbed clean of dirt. Cosette stifles a laugh and gives her the garments, turning away as the girl puts them on. She hears the rustling of cloth, muffled curses and a brief question on how to properly put on the sleeves, which she does her best to answer.

When she turns around, the girl looks almost shy. The dress needs to be taken in around her body, and she needs shoes and a belt, but she looks pretty, despite the hollowness of starvation marked on her face. She smiles, showing the gaps in her teeth. Cosette brings her the missing accoutrements and pins the dress so it fits better.

“You know, we used to dress this well when we were little,” the girl says, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “Mother used to dress us so very warmly.” She turns then, looks Cosette in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever are you sorry for? This is no trouble at all.” She arranges the folds of the dress artfully, and ties a ruffled cap on the girl’s head. “Now, look at yourself,” she says, trying to sound cheerful.

The girl does, tweaking the folds of the dress here and there, pushing the cap back to reveal more of her hair. “I don’t look like myself,” she murmurs, meeting the eyes of her reflection.

“And who are you?” Cosette whispers. She barely dares to say it.

The girl freezes, takes a step towards the door. She trembles from head to foot, her fists clenched. “You do not want to know.” Her voice is hoarse and terrible.

“I do,” Cosette says, and her own voice is as coaxing as she can make it, the voice she uses on stray cats and finches and larks, the voice she uses when she needs to get her way. “I really do. Please tell me.”

The girl is at the threshold now, fleeing across the house and into the garden. Cosette follows, running as fast as her feet will allow. She reaches out, and her fingers brush one of the girl’s sleeves.

The girl whirls, and her white face is twisted in a horrifying manner. “Do you really want to know?” she demands, and she seems to grow, to loom before Cosette’s eyes. “Do you, do you, do _you_ really? You want to know who I am?” Her jaw is set, unflinching. “You?”

“Of course.”

“Éponine!” she chokes out, and she takes off again.

Cosette longs to follow, to demand an explanation, but instead, she remains at the doorway, one hand on the frame to steady herself. Her nightmare childhood reels on the edges of her vision, and she sinks to the floor.


End file.
